Go ahead, pull me over!

It's finally happened. I now weigh less than my driver's license.

I'm going to go buy some liquor at a Pick-n-Save just so I can get carded. I might even scratch my signature off all my credit cards so I get asked for ID every time I use them.

I just want to hear those magic words, "That doesn't even look like you!" Or, "You'll have to wait a moment, please, Ma'am" as they rush to the backroom to call the police because they think I'm an identity thief. How cool would that be?

To mark this significant victory, I did a ton of shopping this weekend. I took my mom to Schaumburg, Illinois. It's the capitol of consumerism and an easy drive from Milwaukee. I left with 4 sweaters, 2 tank tops, a couple bras, 2 pairs of jeans, a leopard print jacket, 2 blouses and 16 pairs of socks. And yes, the smallest size I bought was an 18/20 that was just about this far [--------------] from closing. I nearly teared up when I realized that the damn thing just about fit. Of course I had to buy it.

Yesterday I wore my sassy new, non-elasticized waist jeans with a sassy magenta T and a sassy sweater. You might say I was sassy. And damn, did I feel great! Today it's back to the old stretch jeans. But not for long.

This last week all my underwear suddenly became too big. So after work yesterday I had to pick up some new things. One puzzling question: why would fat girls want to wear panties that a) let their fat rolls hang out or b) get lost in the fat rolls? Even if I ever weigh 125 pounds, I am not wedging a thong up my ass crack.